Page 8 of Dream Girl

“How did it go?” she asks, excitement flashing in her brown eyes.

She knows better than to ask me about that. I can share what I said in therapy, but I can’t find it in my voice to tell her. I don’t know why it’s just about my day and her that I speak mostly of or else it’s just silence for the whole forty-five minutes.

“Fine.”

She pouts, tilting her head back as she skips towards the living room where she has a lump of a blanket laying. She had been lying there until I came home and by the warmth of her body, it’s been a while since she had moved.

Her eyes land on the things in my hands, and she squeals. “Is that for me?”

I really want to crack my knuckles on her skull. “I don’t like sweets.”

Her excitement and joy are contagious as she shakes in happiness as she snatches the bag out of my hand. She almost rips the bag open, and her mouth opens, just a second away from drooling when she wiggles her fingers.

“Wash your hands.”

That dulls her joy, and she watches me as if I just had stepped on her metaphorical tail. I wouldn’t do such an unethical thing, but I would pick her up by the nape of her neck if she was a pet.

The expression of absolute offensiveness stays, determined and mercilessly digging into my conscience to make me guilty. I am proud to admit that I have honed my skills and harden my resolve when Amelia looks at me with those big, begging brown eyes that take away all the air in my lungs.

“Go.” That command is matched with a whine before her tiny feet smack on the ground.

Amelia may sound childish, but she listens to me when I tell her to do something. She obeys, and I don’t know if it’s in her character or if she has become accustomed to my authoritative nature that has been polished during my Navy days.

I follow her soon after she skids across the kitchen floor, falling on her ass and scrambling up as if nothing had happened. Amelia can overlook anything if she has food in her tunnel vision, and it’s evident when she fell on the ground.

She’s always so happy—too happy for a grumpy old man like myself, but I feel no remorse when she turns around to beam at me.

I think I understand why the blond-haired man, Eddie, impacts me more than the average Jane and John Doe around the streets.

He reminds me of Amelia.

“I met someone today,” I reluctantly spit out, frowning at the man’s face surfacing in my head.

Another dull throb flares on the scar at my side. When I think about that man, the pain on my healed wound would pinch uncomfortably. Whatever this means, I don’t want to have it permanently. This is the same pain of losing myself at that warzone and everything that I hold dear.

I lost everything back then, but I gained forever with Amelia.

Amelia, unaware of the turmoil raging inside of me, wraps her small arms around my waist. The pain soothes away, and I bury my nose in her hair, taking in the faint shampoo and something herself would have.

“A friend?”

There is unrestrained eagerness in her voice as she adjusts her body to watch me with her head tipped back.

“No.” I don’t make friends, and I don’t have friends either. I’m not in a part of my life right now to make friendships, and I don’t think I’ll ever want to. I have Amelia, and she is everything I need.

She’s the friend that has my back, the lover that stops me from decaying with my own demons, the home that secures my battered soul.

“What’s he like?” she asks, interest shining glossily in her eyes, and she bounces on her heels to get me to spill the tea as she would say.

“Obnoxious, exuberant…” There are more vocabularies that I can describe that man, but I would rather save my breath on a nobody.

“He reminds me of you.”

She hums, a thoughtful pout of her lips turns into a smile.

“A simpleton.”

Amelia gasps, eyes blinking in offensiveness and humorous playfulness. “Hey!”

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